The chamber of Lord Marvik was stifling, the air thick with incense and tension.
Tapestries of old battles hung from the walls, but for once the nobles gathered beneath them did not boast of glories past.
They whispered, hands twitching at goblets of wine, eyes darting as though expecting the walls themselves to betray them.
The news from Emberhold had spread like fire across dry grass. Ignarion's banners, broken. Their armies shattered.
The Crucible's flame, the very foundation of their supremacy, was guttering.
And the other houses were circling.
Lord Marvik was the first to break the silence. He was broad-shouldered, his hair streaked with iron gray, his voice heavy with the weight of caution.
"Twenty thousand," he muttered, as though saying the number aloud might make it vanish.
"Ferrondel marches with twenty thousand Nulls. Armed with iron thunder. Supplied by machines, not magic. I saw the images with my own eyes. Do not tell me this is a trick or an exaggeration."
